


Same Thing Every Year

by Silverlace_Vine



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An OT4 but one of them is missing, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Prompto Argentum, Bullying, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, Original Character Antagonist, Other, because of the bullying, descriptions of injuries, so much grief and mourning, the slash isn't very noticeable at all but there's definitely a more-than-friends thing happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 13:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15414264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverlace_Vine/pseuds/Silverlace_Vine
Summary: Originally written for the FFXV Kink Meme:At 10 years old Noctis disappears into the crystal.I want to see Regis, Ignis, Gladio, all of Insomnia react to the prince's absence/return.





	Same Thing Every Year

 

 

 

The news had stopped talking about it after what would have been his fifteenth birthday.  
  
At first, it was the only thing _anyone_ talked about. Assassination, accident, kidnapping, disappearance, illness, the tabloids and conspiracy theorists even concocted wild stories about Prince Noctis being some kind of urban legend that had never actually existed.  
  
But the longer the world had to go without answers, no matter how many investigations were launched, no matter what political turmoil it stirred, the more clear it was that the prince was gone. For the average person, it became a sad story amid hundreds of others in the history of the world, with a creeping despair as they wondered, but didn't dare ask, what would happen now that the Crystal had no chosen king. For those parents whose children missed the quiet boy in black when they went to school, there was talk of building a new royal tomb, one whose sarcophagus would be much smaller and lighter than the others for having no bones to bury in it, a child's fishing pole in place of whatever noble sword he'd never have the chance to wield.  
  
For those closer to the crown, it was a much less romantic tragedy. Regis had prepared himself for his son's death, not his disappearance; meditating upon the Crystal yielded nothing but that the prophecy that had named Noctis the King of Light still stood true. When the rumors of increasing military strength in Niflheim died down, a chilling thought had seized his heart and all but froze it in his chest: it only said _who_ would save it, not _when_ , not _where_. The cruelest irony of prophecy is that it must be interpreted, and the interpreters are human; if it was Noctis' task to retrieve the arms of his ancestors, perhaps it wasn't so simple as collecting them from their shrines. If it would cost Noctis' own life in the saving of the world, wouldn't it stand to reason that at least part of that task would be done in the hereafter? And wouldn't it be kinder in the long run to kill the boy before he knew enough about the world to miss it, still too innocent to be afraid or bitter about his own loss?  
  
And with peace on the horizon, the Oracle safe in her kingdom and Niflheim no longer threatened by the presence of the promised prince, with the reigning King secure on his throne, the world continued on.  
  


 

\--  
  


 

"Why do we go through this every year?"  
  
"It's our responsibility to stay sharp: Study. Practice. Prepare." Ignis calmly turns to a new page in his notebook. "We serve the--"  
  
"There's no prince to serve."   
  
"He may not be here in the room with us, but so long as His Majesty insists that the prophecy stands and Noctis remains the King of Light, we have our duty to uphold. This is all we can do for him, so it's vital that we do it. Unless buttoning up your shirt is too much to ask, I suppose." The dress uniform looks good on him; the slim cut of the black silk jacket fits his frame beautifully despite the slightly-too-short sleeves. The adjustments had been made at the last minute, but adolescence is a swift bird, and Ignis had gone from overly-serious little boy to reasonably-serious young man almost overnight.   
  
Gladio frowns, pacing like a caged lion as he fusses with his necktie. "Look. I've been keeping it to myself up until now, but even if the rest of the world can just go on hoping, you and I need to be realistic. We can't take the king at his word, not on this."  
  
The look Ignis shoots him over the top of his glasses sends a stinging heat up the back of Gladio's neck. "If I were absolutely anyone else, what you just said would be enough to charge you with treason. But since it _is_ me, you have a chance to explain. Don't waste it, or I'll run you out of the castle myself; words like that have no place on a Crownsguard's tongue."  
  
"He's grieving." Gladio bristles at the threat, but there's no point in arguing about it. "And he's the only person who can commune with the Crystal on any level. We only think Noctis is still alive because Regis says he is. We can't prove he's being honest about what he senses, or that what he senses is actually what he senses and not just what he wants to believe. I'm not saying we should give up on it, just.. we need to have a plan ready if he--"  
  
Ignis slams his hands on the desktop as he stands. He shoves the chair away and takes only a few short steps to confront the other boy directly. "That's _enough_. May the Six forbid anything happen to his Majesty, but if it does, that's the Kingsglaive's responsibility; we have our own."  
  
"To Hell with _our responsibility!"_ Gladio straightens, a very deep voice coming from a soon-to-be very deep chest rasping the back of his throat. "Don't you get it? Every year that passes is another year that he's not studying, not training, not... doing whatever it is that princes do to become kings. If he comes back-- If he came back _today_ , do you know what he'd be? A sixteen-year-old who never finished the fourth grade! Every year that gap is going to get wider, and it's already bad enough as it is. We need a backup plan because this is a _problem_ and ignoring it won't make it go away!"  
  
"When."   
  
"When... when what?"   
  
Ignis snags a fistful of Gladio's lapel, and for a split second he thinks there's about to be a fight. His voice is so soft, it's barely audible over the faint sound of straining fabric in his grip ."You said _if_ he comes back. You mean _when_."  
  
For a few agonizing heartbeats, there's nothing, a yawning chasm of grief and silence, and then someone draws a shaky, watery breath, and it's over. There just aren't any words for it, and no reason to speak them aloud; the world that faces an endless night has taken another trip around the sun.   
  
"We should get going, or we're gonna be late."   
  
"Mm."

 

  
  
\--

 

 

  
  
"Same thing every year. I mean, jeez, just get over it already."  
  
"Dude, Claude, don't jinx it. They let me skip detention for this."  
  
"Yeah, well, _I'm_ missing study hall, which means I'm _also_ missing Valeria Lucernis in a skintight sweater, so you can go eat a bag of honey-dipped dicks."   
  
"Why? Attendance isn't mandatory, you could have just gone to class."  
  
"Not mandatory for _you_ , maybe, but my mom's coming for the royal address, she'll kill me if she doesn't see me in the audience. She has this whole... _thing_ about it, she always gets insanely over-protective and cries for like, a week afterward. Same thing every year, it's fucking stupid. How many funerals does one dead kid need?"  
  
Claudius doesn't hear it until it's too late: the swing of a canvas bookbag as it slides off somone's back, followed immediately by a sudden impact between his shoulderblades and the copper bloom of blood in his mouth as his face hits the sidewalk.   
  
"That's _it_ , I'm not listening to any more of your crap! Not today!"  
  
The boy picks himself up off the ground and drags a red smear from his lip to his jawline as he wipes his face. "You better call the ambulance _now_ , faggot, you're gonna be in the hospital for a month when I'm done with you."   
  
Claudius Spatha is one of the worst people ever to set foot in a schoolyard. Six feet of corn-fed muscle, held back two years, hotly desired by every contact sport club in the district but too stupid to maintain the GPA to stay on a team, all wrapped up in violence and aggression like pork in a sausage casing.  
  
Faced with two choices, either A, stand his ground and prepare to eat enough pavement to crap a parking lot, or B, run like the wind and get enough of a lead for Claudius to forget why he started in the first place, Prompto Argentum goes for a mix of both: he stands his ground and runs his mouth.  
  
"I don't care what you do, so long as you _shut the fuck up_!" His voice only cracks a little bit. "Noctis wasn't just anybody, you know, he--"   
  
The first punch knocks him deaf for a few seconds, all sound in the world replaced with a cloying buzz and little pops and sparks of color in the darkness. The second one lands in the pit of his stomach and leaves a sickened veneer over the pain of the impact; it makes his vision swim and pulls the sour taste of bile up from his stomach like a bucket drawing from a well.  
  
"Dude, just stay down." Blaseo, the boy missing the math test, backs away slowly; if he were a little braver, he'd be over there helping Prompto up, but they both know that's not on the table right now. Instead, he tugs on Claudius' sleeve, trying to urge him back on the path toward the elementary school. "Look, you made your point, okay? Let's just go."  
  
"Fine, whatever. Y'hear that? I'm letting you off easy today on account of your dead boyfriend, so run along home, chickenhead. "   
  
The two of them almost make it a good ten feet. Then there's the scuffle of shoes scraping the sidewalk, the soft pat of skinned palms being wiped on uniform slacks, and the thick sound of blood being spat into the grass. Prompto swallows, still clenched all over with pain. His eyes are brimming with tears, there's a sharp stitch in his chest when he breathes, and there are so many words trying to get out of his mouth with not-enough air in his lungs that they end up just rambling in his head.

 _She gets protective because the ceremony makes her worry about you. Not every parent gets to take their kid home from school, you asshole. They don't have this ceremony just for **Noctis**._   
  
The image of a boy with night-blue eyes and tomb-black clothes flits against his memory, too cool to be approached but never really acting like it; a laid-back little shadow that went where it pleased and didn't judge, and then, for no reason, vanished with all the other shadows when the sun came up one day. Prompto had given up on losing weight then-- who was left to care about that anymore?-- but he'd slimmed down a lot anyway; turns out leading a one-man search team is good exercise, especially if you do it every night and weekend for six years straight.  
  
His mind returns to the here-and-now and decides that this is a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea, and although his better judgment is screaming at him to quit while he's ahead, his body is sprinting forward almost of its own volition, closing the distance between him and the only problem in his life he can actually touch. After all the years of chasing a shadow he still can't find, getting two fistfuls of a uniform blazer is so satisfying that he barely feels it when he body-checks Claudius into a lamppost and shatters it. The much-bigger body banks against the pole on the way down, and he ends up face-first in the dirt.

Prompto stands over Claudius for only a few precious seconds, suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings and the furious lummox scrambling to his feet; he's dimly aware of the rest of the students gasping and shouting, but none of them stay to gawk or circle up around what has officially become a fight. Blaseo is already gone, taken off running and hell-bent on getting as far away as possible.

He swallows the rest of the blood in his mouth, realizing that he has no allies this time, no hope of mercy, no voice of reason. There's nobody here but the big, stupid bully, and the skinny nerd who's finally had enough.   
  
When Claudius is up and standing again, beading lines of blood from the broken glass are latticed across his forehead, and one cheekbone is starting to swell up.  As far as Prompto's concerned, even if he dies tonight, it's already his win. The big, dumb oaf is so completely paralyzed with rage he can't even talk, and he wouldn't be _that_ angry if he didn't have brains enough to realize that  _everybody_ is going to know that Prompto Argentum gave Claudius Spatha a black eye.

It's an advantage he won't be able to press for long, so he cuts a split-lipped grin and tightens the wrist straps on his gloves. "You wanna complain about it? Fine, you're entitled to your shitty opinions. But from now on, you better do it where I can't hear you, 'cause I don't run from mama's boys."

 

 

\--

 

 

The little shrine hasn't changed much. The fishpond had been installed as a memorial for Noctis, with a single stone lantern sitting in the center. Every year, students and teachers from Noctis' elementary school gather to pray for his safe return on the anniversary of the day he disappeared.  
  
They toss coins and flowers into the water with their prayers. The older ones count the ripples and say that's how many more years it'll be before the Prince returns, and the ones too young to have ever met him do their best to cast their offerings without disturbing the water at all. The teachers pour glasses of wine and raise them in honor of the King, long may he reign, and the King, always in attendance, gives a little speech to thank them for remembering.  
  
Regis tries not to linger on the faces of his son's classmates. There are fewer of them every year, and the ones that do attend are all so grown up now.  The little boys who weren't ill-mannered or bold enough to get rowdy with Noctis are young men now, some of them stooping their shoulders when they realize they're taller than their King.  The cute little girls who'd practiced their curtsies by greeting Noctis have bloomed into young women, who greet Regis with skillful greetings and quietly sympathetic smiles. As he looks over the gathered youths, he wonders if, had things gone differently, any of them might have hoped to bring a love letter to Noctis' locker rather than a gift at his death-shrine.

He smiles, of course, and it's difficult to be anything but charmed by watching what was once a gaggle of noisy children greet him as respectful youths, but the persistent ache in his chest gets a little sharper when he sees them next to the portrait of his own son, forever frozen at ten.   
  
Now, he's here, on the curb in front of the building. Part of him still half-expects the bell to ring, Noctis to come running out of the doors and dive into the passenger's seat. A greater part tells him to stop dwelling on it, to force down the stinging in his eyes; Noctis' destiny is still out there somewhere, but his father was never promised a place in it. It was his role to help bring him into the world and raise him to be the one who would save it, and so long as the Crystal reassured him that he would return one day to do that, Regis could be content. He would have to be.

His pace and bearing are practiced, poised as he walks, but his thoughts are elsewhere and he's only dimly aware that the rest of his entourage is nearby. He gives the speech with numb sincerity, _thank you all for coming, for remembering; have faith, he will return, and the stars have not forsaken us_. Saying it makes him believe it again, gives him another year's worth of hope.   
  
It's hardest the moment he lights the lantern. A single spark of fire magic is all it takes to keep it lit the whole year round, but by the end of the ceremony, the sun is long gone and the water is a smooth, black mirror, with nothing but a single, silver flame to interrupt the darkness: the only light in the night sky that still appears when he calls.  
  
Inside he can feel the Crystal and the Wall gnawing away at him. When he leaves the ceremony to return to the car, he tells no one, and drives away to find somewhere safe, quiet, and dark. It's the only place that feels holy enough for a king to pray in earnest, no matter how deaf the gods are to his pleading, and the only place secluded enough for a father to weep, no matter how futile his pain.  
  


 

\--  
  


 

"Holy shit, kid, what happened to you?"  
  
"Oh, um. I got in a fight." Prompto drops onto the grass. His clothes are all but ruined, streaks of dry blood all over his hands and face, angry purple bruises everywhere. "But it's fine, you should see the other guy."

Ignis kneels down and lightly pats at the deepest cut on Prompto's forehead with a handkerchief. "You really ought to see a doctor."

"For this? Nah. Thanks, though, Iggy.. I'm sorry I missed it."   
  
The ceremony's long over. The lantern is the only light on the grounds now, but it's bright enough to be pretty and atmospheric more than creepy or cold. The only people still here are the ones upholding another yearly tradition, this one smaller and less hopeful.  
  
"What were you fighting about?" Gladio sits down, tips Prompto's chin up to inspect his injuries. "That'll be a nice shiner tomorrow, y'know."  
  
"...He was complaining about the memorial service. Stupid complaints, too. I couldn't take it anymore, so I hit him, and I got my ass kicked pretty hard, but he didn't walk away whistling either, so I'm counting it as a win for me." Prompto sighs. "But that's not important. Thanks for waiting for me, guys."  
  
"Of course." Ignis puts the handkerchief away. "How goes your search?"  
  
"Same as always, didn't find jack, squat, or shit." He reaches into his pocket and tosses Gladio a flash drive. "That's it for this semester, but I don't have any more pictures. Sorry."  
  
"It's fine, it's not like there'd be any new ones anyway." He takes it and puts it away. "Thanks for keeping up with it."   
  
"No problem."  
  
They'd become friends on this very spot, years ago. The first memorial for the missing prince had been crowded and solemn, and most of the people attending were there to hear news on the investigation more than to mourn his assumed loss. The other boys and girls from his class stayed huddled close to their parents, not understanding why Noctis was missing but well aware that their mothers and fathers were scared.  
  
Ignis and Gladio had stayed long after the ceremony ended, less because they wanted to and more because they weren't sure where to go. They were too young to take up other royal appointments, and without a prince to protect and care for, they had no course to follow. Returning to the Citadel meant confronting that reality, and neither of them were really prepared for that; the road they'd planned on taking had suddenly crumbled under their feet, so they stayed where they were.  
  
The only other person left was a chubby little boy who'd come by himself. He waited for the crowd to leave, and when he thought he was alone, he spoke quietly to the picture of Noctis on his camera: _I'll look for you. Maybe if I was braver I would have been your friend, and maybe I would have been there, and I could have.. well, no. Whoever got you would probably get me even easier, but at least you wouldn't be alone. I'll take good notes so you can copy them when you get back, but until then, I'm still going to look for you. Even if everybody else thinks you're dead, I'm gonna keep looking until I find you, or I die, whichever comes first. I promise. So hang in there, okay?_   
  
Gladio had cried. Nobody mentioned it, of course, because if there's any boy in the world who isn't supposed to cry, it's a Shield-in-training, but the noise had startled the fourth-grader with the camera, and the secret was out. After that, they had no choice but to become friends, because that's the only way you can swear somebody to secrecy and expect them to keep their oath.   
  
Since then, they meet infrequently. High school is demanding, and working in the Citadel is busy, but this is the one night a year when they can be absolutely certain that they'll have time to see each other. It's the same thing every year, like everything else.  
  
Now, the three of them sit on the edge of the fishpond, watching the flickering reflections of fireflies and lantern-light. It's never a happy occasion, but at least it's comforting. Having to go through the motions is sad and tiring; with friends, it's still sad, and still tiring, but the added benefit of not feeling alone in a crowd goes a long way.  
  
"I spoke to the King the other day." Ignis breaks the companionable silence with practiced, fine-edged ease.   
  
"How's he doing?"  
  
Gladio tries not to look bitter, and mostly succeeds. "A little worse every day. He says the Crystal doesn't draw on him as much since Noctis disappeared so he has more energy to devote to the Wall, but it's wearing on him. He's holding up pretty well, otherwise."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. He bounced a Niflheim ship last month. He talked the press into not making a fuss over it, but it was pretty cool. Turns out Magitek Troops just kind of roll down the side before the energy pops them, it looks a little bit like a beetle hitting a windshield."   
  
Prompto laughs. It's a good sound, the kind that lightens the air around it. "Cool! Wish I'd been there to see it."  
  
"Next time, you might." Ignis smiles. "I told his Majesty we've got options on a new recruit for the Crownsguard, so don't be surprised if you get a letter telling you to report to the Citadel sometime next month."  
  
"Whoa, seriously!?"   
  
"Sure. It's obvious, isn't it?" Gladio smiles and claps Prompto on the back. It only knocks the wind out of him a little bit. "It's basically not any different from what you've been doing this whole time anyway, right? And when you graduate, we'll get to hang out more."  
  
"But.. I'm not.." Prompto fumbles the words a little, looking between the other two as if he half-expects it to be a prank. "You were both picked as kids, right? Don't.. doesn't that disqualify me, or something?"  
  
"The only thing that really matters is dedication," Ignis responds. There's a note of gravity and seriousness in his voice that seems both deeply ingrained and a little desperate, like he's saying it more to remind himself than to convince a novice. "And you've got that in spades. You'll do very well for yourself with us, I think. If you want to, of course."  
  
"Of course I do!" He beams, but it fades into uncertainty. "...Do you think the prince would be okay with that?"  
  
"You did all his homework for him for six years. If he's _not_ okay with it, I'll smack him upside his head." Gladio slings an arm around Prompto's neck.  "Then again, it probably depends on whether or not _your_ grades suck."  
  
"My grades are fine, thank you very much!"  
  
Ignis chuckles; it's a mild sound that makes him seem much older than he really is. "Even with the searching?"   
  
"Even with the searching! I usually make a point of getting detention a few times a week. Just to get some extra time in the library, not because I misbehave or anything."  
  
"And the fistfight doesn't count because...?"  
  
"Hey, we weren't on school grounds, so it's completely off the books. At least until his parents complain, but there's at least twelve hours until then, so today, I still have a clean record." Prompto grins. "Hey, there's an idea. If I start studying now, I bet I could be the prince's lawyer by the time he gets back."  
  
Gladio laughs, but Ignis shakes his head, and turns his attention quietly back to the lantern, and the silvery flame flickering in it. "...He'll have missed a great deal," he murmurs. "It's already been a long time. He'd probably be learning how to drive, about now."  
  
"Ignis..."  
  
"No. It's fine, you were right about one thing, at least." Ignis looks between the other two, and explains, for Prompto's benefit. "Gladio made a good point earlier today. Wherever Noctis is, he hasn't been getting the education he should, and although there's no doubt in my mind that he _will_ return, we have no promise that we'll live to see it. What you've been doing up until now... searching for him, keeping notes on his studies for him, it's probably one of the best things anyone _could_ do."  
  
Gladio nods his agreement, and stands up, stretching. "When you think about it, that's true for a lot of reasons," he says. "You're right, Ignis and I got picked for this when we were kids, but it's been.. it's been a while. I don't think he'll need a lawyer when he gets back, but he'll probably need a friend his own age. Somebody who didn't... completely grow up without him, you know? Think you can do that, Prompto?"   
  
Prompto nods, and he does his absolute best to pretend that he didn't just hear Gladio's voice crack, and if he did, it's only because his voice is changing and not for the same reason there's a brimming sheen across his eyes. "I can do that, absolutely. Forever, if that's what it takes."  
  
Ignis pretends it doesn't hurt to see Gladio blink those tears away, completely solid as steel once more. A boy might be forgiven for crying, even a grown man might be, once in a while. But a Shield never breaks, even if there's nothing for him to protect.  
  


 

 

\--   
  


 

 

 

Morning happens.  
  
It seems like it's been a while. Not so long ago that he doesn't remember what a morning is, but long enough that he thinks the light streaming through the curtains is strange for being yellow and warm, rather than a cool, crystalline white.   
  
_Sunlight,_ he recalls. _Right_.  
  
The marble floor is cold under his feet, but it's a good cold, alive and sharp and almost painful. Everything hurts at first, joints and muscles loosening from stone-stiffness, only just sore enough to feel utterly delicious once it fades. Part of him wants to go back to sleep, but the rest of him is too acutely aware of how small this bed is.  
  
The voices of the Six are still fresh in his mind, though their words, not so much. He knows what he must do, and how it must be done, and what will become of him, but the stars won't be in their places for a few more years. There's time.  
  
Gentiana's voice resounds from her place next to his window. Despite the warmth of the light pouring into the room, her presence leaves curling trails of frost crawling across the glass. "Shall I tell the Oracle to expect you, my king?"  
  
Noctis wraps himself up in the bedsheet before he crosses the room to join her. Everything is exactly how he left it, save for the thin layer of dust everywhere. Stirring it leaves a soft, sunlit cloud in his wake. "You didn't tell her already?"  
  
"She's never lost her faith that you'd return. I didn't see the necessity."  
  
"Leave it, then. I'll send her our notebook."  
  
"Very well." She smiles, the soft, coy amusement forever playing at her lips spreading like cold to the rest of the room. "What will you do first?"  
  
The prince grins. His hair hangs in a loose, black-velvet fringe down his back, and there's not a stitch of clothing anywhere in his wardrobe that would even half-fit him; the skinny boy with rifle-hard limbs and wide, thoughtful eyes had been replaced with a young man, healthy, lean, and pale as the moon he hasn't seen in a decade.   
  
In a few minutes, he'll meander down to the throne room, where his father will be sitting and taking court. He'll wait, quietly and patiently, because the last thing he wants is to cause an uproar, and he'll only have one chance to really observe King Regis on the throne in complete, objective secrecy.  
  
He won't get that chance, because there'll be an excitable young blond man who hasn't gone a day in the past ten years without making a renewed promise into a dog-eared photo of those same night-blue eyes, who will run full-tilt for his bespectacled friend, who will insist on calling their very tall, very robust, very strong other friend to protect them from angry courtiers while they dive on Noctis with hugs and tears and drag him to meet his father, who will finally, after ten long, sad years, let a special silver lantern-flame burn out.   
  
He knows all this. So he smiles.  
  
"...Pants. I'm thinking pants."

 

 

 

 


End file.
